Monday, April 06, 2015

napowrimo day 6: aubade

Good morning, red-shouldered hawk.
Like me you rise for breakfast,
you perch on the telephone wire
that leads to my computer.

You must be dangerous
but the cottontail
continues to browse
the garden while the gray
squirrel fearlessly raids
the feeder:
his own drive-up window.

Why won't you eat? I wouldn't
miss any of those critters,
the felonious squirrel, the fecund
rabbit, and your stern and querying
gaze is sympathetic to my mood
as I browse the news and the
lastest outrage.

The squirrel's more ambitious than me.
He turns over the soil to bury his acorns
and piqued by your presence
till he cannot abide it
begins to chase you away
feinting towards you till you
fly away. I understand. The noisy ones
drive me crazy too.

Thursday, April 02, 2015

napowrimo day 2

Orion is asking something of me.
I take off my specs, I
hunt by my deciduous
feet, descendent from
my despicable heart,
and arrows arose
their points so sharp
they might break your
skin: if only you could
keep them honed
and only home can do
what we want,  only heart,
only heat, at the hearth
where that lonely huntsman
dying just out of reach
of some redeeming
god or goddess, her heart
aching, for your piteous
state, for her futility,
and so you will never
taste her sweet lips again.

Wednesday, April 01, 2015

napowrimo day 1: incredible shrinking man

“. . . we were very small and very far away.”
--Steven Millhauser

. . . as infinitesimal
as the facets of a single
grain of salt where I
now stand and see,
beneath me a further

row of facets through
the glassy floor of the salt
a rougher texture than I
expected—gritty, like salt
rubbed between

the thumb and fingertip,
now so huge, like two air
ships colliding
majestically above me
and grinding between

their whorled
surfaces more salt.
A grain in my eye is burning
and now I see it’s
another cube

and now I slip between
the molecules
themselves as big as airships
Beyond my sight
something I cannot

encompass: no ladder
no grain, no airship
only something
very small and very
far away that looks

back at me.

Friday, November 14, 2014

napowrimo 2

Ask and Embla

drifted up from the water
no arms to hold each other

They must have come
from some forest
tripped off the edge
worn out trees once

a dead trunk on a rocky coast
rocking back and forth in some shallow
sand wore them down
no bark no bite no wit

till gods gave them
spirit sense blood and color

wooden expression

Embla's breath through
blood flows
the color of fire

They'll become trees again

Tuesday, September 23, 2014


Little bats scrabbling along rusted bridges and pinging the rivets with their echo location. That's music.

Orcas holding their breath while they wait for clueless seals to wander down to the water's edge. That's music.

Ancient vibration so slack it won't move my eardrum the width of an atom. That's music

The old priest humming through his head as he feels the air drift away on Olympus Mons: that's music.

The broken-winded centaur's battered lyre dreaming up the broken-winged fairy: that's music.

Friday, September 12, 2014

Aug 20, '14

I went down to the creek
behind my house because
that's where things happen:

the Loreleis chanting,
the water moccasins's nest.

Someone told me the property line
is mid-way through the creek.
How to find out?
of Records? "Sir, this is a hall
of records, not a lending library."

I'm puzzled by my need
to own a swath of
flowing water.
Heraclitus wags
his admonitory beard.

Down there someone threw
into one of the honeysuckles
a bread wrapper filled
with his dog's filth.

Ah, home ownership.
If I were renting I could call the landlord:
clean up your shit,
but now it's mine
and the creek won't wash it. away.

Wednesday, September 10, 2014

imaginary cat

My heart is not sound.
Johns Hopkins says I need a pet,
to care for someone else.
Should I get a cat?
He'd curl up in my lap
purring like an organ bellows,
or wait patiently for his dinner
that I find distasteful

or maybe I'd be absent-minded
or stay out late and I'd come home
to find him
yowling in outraged hunger?
then gorge himself because he was afraid
because I am unreliable, and in fear
and consolation he stuffs himself with his mess.
that I clean up later.

His litterbox I won't talk about

the dead birds he brings me

He sits on my chest while I sleep,
so I wake up to his furry regard: 
El Gato, the most famous luchador,
too certain to bother with bravado:
he will never lose his mask.

Through his paws he can feel
the rotten valve in my heart;
he hears its delicate squeak,
and he toys with it.